


press x to doubt

by stardustardie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: F/M, Force Ghost Revan, Force-Sensitive Reader, Gen, Incorporeal Pal Revan, Light Side Revan - Freeform, REALLY tentative title i know, get ready for some GARBAGE, ill get a better one soon, listen i have the biggest thing for revan. just not. 'canon revan.', so here's the revan i have the biggest thing for: aka garbage man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16691017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustardie/pseuds/stardustardie
Summary: In a galaxy steeped in Imperial rule, the worst thing a person can be is Force sensitive. So, naturally, you’re Force sensitive. As a general law, getting one’s grubby smuggler hands on Old Republic-era relics is vastly unlikely. So, naturally, you find the artifact that ties you to the three-thousand-year-old Force ghost of Darth Revan.





	press x to doubt

**Author's Note:**

> 1) i Feel for Revan and i Feel Things for Revan.  
> 2) i like writing reader inserts.  
> 3) here's an LSM!revan/reader  
> 4) because i Feel for Revan, i Feel Things for Revan, and i like writing reader inserts  
> 5) coolio.

Dorban Halisse was, without a doubt, the most jittery Twi’lek this side of Tatooine. He was all glass edges, paranoid, and frequently dropped things (his shaking hands never allowed for safe transport of datapads, credits, or, stars forbid, hyperspace fuel). Every exchange was conducted in a quiet corner of the cantina, with the other party’s weapons laid out where he could see them.

Dorban was also one of the few people alive that you could trust, and the feeling was, strangely, mutual.

“Safe passage, Cinder?” he asked, glancing over at the other disinterested patrons. He spared you a half-second of eye contact, and you allowed yourself to feel a little bit special. Willing eye contact _and_ an inquiry about your trip? Very few people received that from him. You half-smiled, though it quickly dissolved into a vexed little huff.

“It was fine.” Besides, of course, the bounty hunter you’d shot down passing Florrum (second one this week), the relentless Imperial blockades springing up in response to the fledgling rebel forces, and – most worryingly of all – the dark-clad people you kept glancing back to find in your wake, on the edge of spaceports and always several yards behind. You didn’t need to say any of this, though. Dorban knew. He’d accepted nothing less than full disclosure.

“Thank you,” you tacked on politely, though it was more to fill the silent beat your too-clipped response left.

“Hm,” he returned, ignoring your courtesy in lieu of leaning slightly over the table. “Hard times. I’ve got you a package to deliver. Sum’s good, even halving it between us.”

A _good sum_ was Dorban-speak for a _very handsome reward_. Needless to say, you felt your interest skyrocket a little bit. A decent payout was hard to come by. A _good sum_ was absolutely serendipitous, and you felt like a little kid being handed a shiny-wrapped present.

Dorban did, too – his lekku curled in ever so slightly at the tips, enough for you to know that he was really rather enthralled by this job. Like a warning bell, though, your common sense kicked in enough for you to realize that when the seasoned fixer was surprised by something, there was usually more to it than met the eye.

You let out a short sigh, bracing yourself. “But it’s dangerous?”

“Very dangerous. I don’t know what the package is – it’s sealed. Lead-lined box. Death threats hanging around it.”

Oh, boy. You were good at what you did – scoundrel enough to put that dirtbag Han Solo to shame – but you weren’t _infallible._ Not to mention the other, less charming part of your personal makeup.

“Dangerous especially to you,” Dorban amended, brown eyes hardening slightly. “But also, I think, understandable _only_ to you.”

Which really meant, _you’re likely to get caught for being Sensitive, but you’re more equipped than the average smuggler to come out of this alive._ You knew that. You didn’t know what that said about the content you’d be moving. You had a sinking feeling _(instinct-intuition-premonition_?) that somehow it was tied to the mystery people tailing you.

Kriff. It was a little unsettling. But also…

“It really does pay a lot?”

“Yes, it pays well.”

Well.

Alright then.

You gave Dorban a wan smile and nodded. “I’ll take the job. Wish me luck.”

Wordlessly, with his blue fingers trembling, he dropped a datachip into your palm. Within the hour, the two of you were outside in the dust and heat, and he was sliding the unassuming grey box into one of the secret hatches on your ship.

It was as you were about to bid him farewell that Dorban suddenly paused, scuffed his boots on the hard-packed sand, and half-turned to face you again.

“I don’t think you need it.”

“What?” you asked, surprised. He sure felt cryptic today, it seemed.

Dorban at least had the decency to look mildly chagrined at his unhelpful ambiguousness, a look that faded quickly as he shrugged. What could have been a grin but wavered too much tugged at his mouth, and you thought that he could be handsome if he smiled.

“Luck,” he said simply, and, walking back to the cantina without another word, melted back into the paranoid fixer with the shaking hands.

You laughed softly.

“Nah,” you said to yourself. “Not luck. Just common sense.” _And maybe the Force_ , that little voice in the back of your mind breathed. It made you scoff. _Ha. Sure._

_May the Force be with me_.

 

* * *

oOo

* * *

 

 

The Force was _not_ with you, and you had no common sense.

“It’s just a box!” you hissed at yourself when you found yourself crouched in front of it for the fifth time. “It’s _just a box!_ Nothing special. Nothing _new_. Stars, there’s not even money in it. _Let it go._ ”

But of course, that’s what you’d told yourself the last four times. And you kept circling back to examine it.

A grey metal box, three feet in diameter. Sitting innocuously in your cargo hold, as boxes were wont to do.

So why did it keep pulling you back to it? What were you smuggling so blindly, with no information as to who wanted it, where it came from, what it even was?

Take this package to some obscure rendezvous point a couple parsecs off from Lothal. Why there? You knew you weren’t in a career that valued curiosity, and you understood that. But for some reason, this was really nagging at you.

_Open it, then._

The thought struck you unbidden and with so much force that you sat back on your heels. Oh, _no._ No, that was just bad business practice. If you opened the box, everyone and their neighbor would know that that pretty little smuggler Cinder was officially more scum than the scum she rubbed elbows with on a daily. Her career would sink. Boba Fett would track her down just to laugh at her.

_You’d_ know.

That stopped you short. Such a simple realization, and yet, one with weight. If you opened this package, you’d know. You’d have an answer – or something resembling an answer – to why you spent your waking moments hunted by a threat you couldn’t begin to give a name to. To why you saw the universe with a depth and sense that you doubted the rest of the world could – else they’d be so much more _lively_ , so much more _afraid._

An answer to why you were such a threat just because you had the _Force Sensitive_ label slapped on your chest like a brand of ostracism. Stars, you were nothing like the Jedi in the hushed stories; you couldn’t be trusted with responsibility or anything remotely swordlike. But there was that _title_ that clung to you, that you tried desperately to hide because it made Dorban’s back hit the wall when he first met you, made his entire frame shake, made him gasp out _you’re one of them_ because you’d dodged a blaster bolt you shouldn’t have…

You didn’t realize there were tears clouding your vision until you felt one of them slip down your face unbidden. Jeez. You had more pent-up feelings about your _condition_ than you thought.

And you had a sudden and rash decision kindling in your head, an excuse you’d fall back on in court. _My intuition made me do it._

You would blame your intuition on the startled swear that left your lips when you pried the box open. A burst of frigid air hit your face – why the contents were kept cold, you’d never know. They were just _swords_.

Laser swords.

Lightsabers.

Even you’d recognize one of the fabled weapons.

_Jedi client!_ You mentally shouted the realization, aware that it wasn’t quite a _realization_ and more a theory at best. The Jedi were dead. More likely, some old rich guy was sentimental and decided to build a museum dedicated to the knights.

“Lightsabers,” you said aloud, pulling yourself back to reality. (All alone on a ship in the middle of hyperspace, remember? In a galaxy clutched in the Empire’s killer grip? Remember?) “Alright, curiosity sated. They probably won’t notice you looked. Ha-ha, just kidding, you’re a goner for sure.”

Now, in retrospect, you’d defend your intentions to your dying breath, even though you didn’t adhere to them. You meant to do the honorable thing, honestly, and reached out to close the lid on the sabers and your questions and your need to understand –

Except you didn’t do that.

Except instead of being the responsible scoundrel, you reached out and picked up the deactivated hilts, gasping at how _cold_ they were, wondering what kind of stories they held. They felt lighter than you’d imagined, although that made sense.

“Ha. _Light_ sabers,” you snickered to yourself, perhaps a bit irreverently. “Because they’re _light_. _Lightsabers.”_

“That’s pretty good,” said a new voice, and you jumped out of your skin. The lightsabers clattered to the floor in your shock, and you were too frightened to turn around for a moment. _How had this guy gotten on board? How long has he been here? This is a small ship – I would’ve noticed!_

A subtle glance over your shoulder assured that the man was not leveling a blaster at your back, but you cried out anyway. This wasn’t a man any you’d ever seen. He was masked, dressed to the nines for the menacing convention, and he _glowed_ – a faint, wondering blue.

“Actually,” the incorporeal man continued thoughtfully, “it’s not _that_ good. But points for trying. Do you mind picking up my sabers?”

 


End file.
